


Capitulation

by ChampagneSly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Romance, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After forty years of waiting for "When it's over", Romano and Spain finally get their chance at fulfilling promises and finding their happiness. This is the sequel to Surrender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Capitulation

_  
March, 1976   
_

Romano was anxious. If pressed, he would have also admitted (albeit begrudgingly) to a low burning excitement thrumming in his veins as he looked out over the railing of the ferry that was slowly closing the distance between his native Italy and the shores of Barcelona. 

After nearly forty years, he was returning to Spain. After forty years of war and death, invasion and struggles at revitalization, iron-fisted dictators and renegade Mafioso, it seemed that a brief moment of respite had finally settled on their burdened shoulders. 

Forty years of such turmoil had doubtless altered the landscape of their lives, but Romano held fast to his silent hope, his most deeply guarded prayer, that through it all Spain had remained unchanged. Or at the very least, if Romano could have nothing else guaranteed in his endless life, he wished that Spain’s heart had stayed true to the promise they had made each other all those years ago in a rundown room on a ragged bed. 

Over the years, there had been sporadic letters exchanged, tense missives that contained so much fear and worry and exhaustion that there was little room for reassurances of love. Romano had once drunkenly confessed to his brother that he thought it was fucking ridiculous that the country of passion and the nation of romance couldn’t manage a proper love letter between them. 

When General Franco had finally died in November of the previous year, Romano had sent flowers to Spain as part of his diplomatic duty as a fellow nation. For hours he had sat wondering what to write, what to say to Spain now that the final barrier between them had fallen. 

And so he sent the flowers with no missive, no invitation or renewal of those more tender sentiments, only a card that read, _“He was a fucker—Romano.”_ For days after, even as he followed the spectacle of Franco’s burial in the newspaper, it seemed to surreal to Romano that “   
when its over   
” had somehow actually come to pass. Suddenly terrified of what the next step would bring (   
_would Spain still want him after all this time?_ ),   
Romano grew anxious and even more cantankerous than usual, temper terrible enough to run Veneziano out of the house.  

He steeped in his fear-driven anger for three weeks until one day he opened the front door of his house in Rome to find a very confused delivery boy holding a basket of tomatoes. Without warning and without reason, his cheeks flushed so brightly that the delivery boy made the unfortunate mistake of asking if he was alright. Romano grabbed the basket and shoved the boy clear of the doorway before slamming the door in shamed rage. Once safely hidden away from prying eyes, he slid down the wall, holding the basket to his chest, unable to keep his mouth from watering at the thought of such deliciously ripe tomatoes in winter. 

He plucked out the folded white paper nestled amongst the ruby red fruit, hands shaking as he opened it, no doubt in his mind as to who it was from. The note contained two lines, lines that Romano had since read more times than he wished to admit. 

_  
Romano,   
_

_  
Come as soon as you can.    
_

Even now, as he crossed the sea separating him from Spain, he kept the note stuffed in his wallet, as though it were a talisman ensuring Spain’s continued devotion. At the time, once his heart had stopped racing, he had written back to Spain, his own letter not much longer, though it took all his courage to put down to paper the promise that Spain had made him so long ago, 

_  
Idiot. You said we would to go the beach.   
_

_  
Barcelona in March.   
_

Though he at the time he had sent his own letter Romano believed he needed time to prepare himself to face Spain, as the months ticked past, Romano’s anxiety and excitement grew to a fevered pitch, up until the very moment that the ship docked. His heart in his throat, he delayed disembarking as long as possible, suddenly terrified by the prospect of seeing Spain again after all these years.

 _  
Would he look the same? Be the same?    
_

_  
Would he remember that Romano had confessed?   
_

_  
Would they still feel the same way about each other?   
_   


“Fuck it!” He declared, attempting to rouse himself into motivated irritation, “I didn’t get on this for shit boat for nothing.”

Comforted by the familiar feeling of annoyance, Romano stomped down the gangway, arms crossed over his chest, refusing to acknowledge the pounding of his heart or the nervous sweat that was starting to trickle down his back. He kept his eyes firmly forward, making steady progress until he heard Spain’s voice calling out to him for the first time in nearly forty years.

“Romano! Romano! Over here!” Spain shouted, waving his arms animatedly and smiling brightly enough to put the sun to shame. 

Romano stumbled, tripping over his feet, shocked into clumsiness by the sight and sound of this man he had missed for longer than he had known. Suddenly Spain was by his side, hand clasped around his elbow, helping him up. And then they were face to face, looking each other in the eyes. 

Romano’s heart skipped a beat. His last memory of Spain had been tarnished by war-weary illness and pallor, but now there was nothing but green eyes and tanned skin, and a beautiful smile, a Spain restored to all his former glory. Romano blushed, immediately looking away and shaking off Spain’s grip. 

“Don’t yell so loudly, moron.” He muttered, still trying to calm his nerves. 

Spain laughed, stepping back into Romano’s personal space, green eyes tracing over his features with such obvious pleasure that all Romano’s attempts at appearing collected were immediately dashed. Spain leaned in close, murmuring in his ear, “It’s good to see you again, Romano.”

Swallowing hard, Romano tried to stave off a shiver, shoving Spain away with a dirty look, “Don’t pull that shit here, bastard. People are looking at you.”

Spain looked unabashed but maintained his distance, “Maybe they’re looking at you. I know I am!”

Cheeks flaming, Romano stormed off, yelling back at an amused Spain, “Shut-up! I didn’t come all the way for this shit!” 

Spain was clearly unconvinced, much to Romano’s annoyance, but let it slide, as he always had, only smiling as he followed Romano’s hurried steps away from the dock, “What did you come here for then?”

Romano spun on his heels, eyes blazing, “Idiot Spain! To go to the beach, obviously!” When he realized that Spain had stilled, a quiet look of reflection gracing his normally oblivious face, Romano’s embarrassed anger dissipated. He shuffled towards Spain, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground, reaching out his hand to brush Spain’s fingers with a whisper of a touch.

“So let’s just go do that, alright?”

Though he refused to look at Spain, he could hear the smile in his voice when he replied, “Of course, Romano! The beach has been waiting for you for a long time.”

An hour later, Spain and Romano were putting one of their greatest shared talents to good use, namely being completely and utterly lazy. Lounging on low slung beach chairs, a bottle of albarino shoved into the sand between them, Spain and Romano basked under the warm spring sun, watching the ebb and flow of the azure sea. Spain was humming quietly, dragging his fingers through the sand and casting not so surreptitious glances at Romano’s shirtless figure.

Loosened by the wine, Romano decided not to be furious with Spain for doing something so fucking embarrassing on a public beach, and instead took the liberty of indulging in more than a few lingering looks of his own. Peeking out from underneath his sunglasses while Spain’s attention was diverted by some noisy seagulls, Romano was relieved to find that the painful Civil War had left few marks on Spain’s irritatingly perfect skin. He was letting his eyes trace up Spain’s calves, up his thighs, flushing as he found himself lingering on the gentle rise and fall of his chest, when his viewing party was interrupted by Spain’s amused green eyes looking directly into his. 

Outraged to have been caught out, Romano huffed and turned away, pointedly ignoring the other man, who he just knew was still smiling at him, less than pure thoughts dancing across his face. 

He heard a sigh and a shuffle, the sounds of Spain lying back down on his chair, before Spain said, in that plain as day way that Romano had so long envied, “I’ve missed you, Romano.”

As the silence lingered, a tiny piece of Romano’s fear melted away, replaced by Spain’s insistent warm affection.

Spain spoke again, this time in a voice more uncertain, “Did you miss me?” 

Romano jerked in his seat, the words, “Of course, I did, idiot. Every day,” flying to his lips and then dying as he choked on his fear and his pride. Angered by his own inabilities, he kept his face turned away, kicking himself as he heard Spain sigh again, this time tinged with resignation and frustration. 

He had to do something. He had not waited forty (four hundred) years to fail now. Quietly, Romano dropped his hand to the side of his chair, letting his fingers bury into the sand, seeking, seeking, until his fingers brushed those of Spain’s. Spain’s fingers stopped their endless dragging movements as Romano pulled them down under, intertwining their hands under a blanket of sand. 

Spain gently squeezed their joined fingers, resuming his earlier happy humming, as Romano stared out at the endless horizon, anchored to this moment.

Hours later, sun-touched, warm and relaxed from the wine, Romano and Spain wandered slowly up the streets of Barcelona, walking closely enough that their shoulders brushed each time they turned a corner. Romano’s mood had gone soft, his earlier nerves tempered by the long nap he had taken while he and Spain engaged in clandestine hand holding beneath the sand. 

Finally, Spain stopped in front of a pleasant, if nondescript, building, smiling lazily at Romano as he fumbled through his pockets for the keys. Romano leaned against wall of the house, taking vicious satisfaction in noticing that this time there were no bars on the windows, no guards patrolling Spain’s coming and goings. 

After a few seconds of colorful cursing, Spain managed to jigger open the door, leading Romano inside. Much to Romano’s annoyance (really, Spain could be so rude), his supposed host took off quickly down the hall, leaving Romano to lock the door. 

After he had done so, he slid off his shoes and proceeded to stomp down the hallway in pursuit of Spain, rounding the corner and beginning to shout angrily, “Hey! Bastard! What’s the deal...” only to have his words trail off entirely when he found Spain in his kitchen, bathed in the glow of the evening sunset, crouching down and talking in low tones to two potted tomato plants. 

It was so ridiculous, so patently Spain, so familiar and yet a sight he had been denied for so long, that all the lingering worry and doubt that had been crowding around Romano’s fragile heart drifted away. As if sensing the change in the mood, Spain stood abruptly, turning to face Romano. He smiled gently and opened his arms in invitation.

Romano crossed the kitchen as quickly as if he had been fleeing from an invading army, pressing his whole self against Spain, finally sealing their reunion with a kiss. 

He felt Spain’s arms wrap tightly around his back, the hold so strong, he was almost lifted off the ground as he arched into Spain’s embrace, letting his eyes flutter closed as they kissed, long and sweet and slow, as rich and wonderful as forty years before.

He threaded his fingers into Spain’s hair, the long buried quiet desperation and longing beginning to surface, his kisses becoming frantic. But Spain would have none of the old sadness, stroking his hands down Romano’s back, rubbing circles over his hips, humming into the kiss before pulling back to smile at Romano with hooded green eyes. He pressed his lips fleetingly against Romano’s temple, his cheek, at the creases of his eyes, the juncture of neck and jaw all while moving them both slowly, in an awkward two person shuffle, out of the kitchen. 

Romano was consumed, screwing his eyes shut against Spain’s gentle onslaught, letting his body be shifted and moved under Spain’s command until he felt the backs of his knees knock against something. His eyes flew open to take in what had to be Spain’s bedroom, plainly adorned with the exception of the large bed he had just had the pleasure of running into.

Before he could adjust to the change in scenery, Spain was pulling at the hem of his shirt, lifting it over his head, scattering the sandy remnants of their earlier activity over the floor and the bed. Spain removed his own shirt, crowding against Romano until they both fell against the bed. 

Suddenly apprehensive, reading the clear intentions in Spain’s eyes, Romano sat up, attempting to back away.    
Spain curled around him, murmuring, “What’s wrong, precious?”

Romano turned his face away, warmed by the endearment, “We’re going to get the bed all sandy.”

Chuckling slightly, Spain ran his finger down Romano’s chest, catching  rough grains of sand, “I don’t care. I’ve got another bed if we want to sleep after.”

 _  
After   
_   
_._ Romano shivered, thinking about how much he really did want to have a    
_  
now   
_   
so that there could be an    
_  
after   
_   
, but held was captive by his own fears of inadequacy. 

Spain hummed thoughtfully, before pushing Romano on to his back, leaning over him, eyes wide and open, “Don’t be nervous, Romano.”

Romano huffed, embarrassed, “I’m not nervous.”

Spain looked at him knowingly, kissing him on the forehead, before speaking in that plainly sincere voice that undid everything wound up in Romano, “Don’t you remember what I said to you last time? I love you, too.” 

Romano stilled entirely, letting himself be swept up in the earnest entreaty in Spain’s gaze, knowing that his own eyes were also filled with the truth of his feelings. 

Spain lowered himself so that he was so close their lips were touching, whispering, “Okay?”

After forty years of waiting and countless years of yearning before that, after violence in all its variations, after all the worrying and wondering, the mistakes and misfires, Romano’s    
_  
now   
_   
had finally arrived. Though he was wise enough to know that strife and suffering was inevitable when you were more or less immortal, he was also wise enough to give into his heart’s insistence that happiness was here and now, resting between his arms, waiting and wanting. It was finally time to chose pleasure over pain, love over loss.

He closed his eyes, letting his hands drift up to clutch at Spain’s hips, preparing for the latest change to his life’s landscape as he murmured back, “Okay.”  



End file.
